Justwhat is it about you...
Just what is it about you, my dear friend,
that is so influencing me?
For I find my thoughts taking a different bend
as if in towards less violently.
So here I am now, thinking something out
and then having a second thought;
is there something happening, without a doubt?
Am I now thinking more of what I ought?
Could it be that you, see within me,
something that I'd rather hide?
Do you see better than most ones see,
or with you have I just not tried?
Do I try to keep kindness out of sight,
so that I cannot get hurt?
Did you find your way to some inner light,
that I've tried to keep inert?
Or is it that you did show me a place
in which I could feel secure,
and is it that you did set me a pace,
one easier to endure?
A why; and a how; and also a who,
things that I could readily trust:
a friend; in a twinkling; both of them you,
since we want, and not since we must.
Could it just be that the way that you think,
blends so well with the way that I do?
Are the two of us, just so in sync,
as to seem one, instead of two?
As a looking glass, do we reflect,
each an echo of the other one?
Or could it be, maybe, less direct,
that as opposites we have fun?
Could the truth be, that we're so bizarre,
that we're not either yin nor yang?
Maybe stranger than aught, near or far,
before even minstrels had sang,
of ought that did ever, catch their eyes
to be thought worthy of a song:
as such is your friendship, that I prize,
that I hope will last eons long.
Maybe some day, or maybe some night,
it'll be that I shall not be here;
when that time comes, if everything's right,
you know you have nothing to fear.
For the fact that we're friends, is more than just words,
is more than just something to say.
It's something that makes us freer than birds,
though bound in our own special way.
So, though I write words, of my feeling for you
they're an injustice as they are,
for words can't reflect the feeling that's true,
and in fact, they may even mar.
It's not that they're lies, or even untruths,
it's just that they're not all there is.
For feelings are old, while words are just youths,
feelings depths, and the words surfaces.
The feelings they float across your mind's eye
not caring 'bout how things may seem;
and though you may want them, they can pass you by
as quickly as any night's dream.
How can you describe what's deep down below,
when you fight just to look inside,
when feelings differ, as do flakes of snow
with your mind just along for the ride?
So, consider the fact, though I am old,
that in here there may be a child,
and though I am shy, for now I am bold,
your friendship, for it, I have smiled.